In the twilight of a brisk autumn afternoon, I found myself showing a seemingly ordinary three-bedroom brick ranch house to a friendly couple near downtown Rochester. We had already toured several potential homes that day, and this one appeared just as normal as the rest.

As we approached the house, the sun cast long shadows across the neatly trimmed lawn and quiet suburban street. The husband and wife exchanged excited glances, eager to explore the latest prospect. Nothing about the exterior hinted at what lay within.

Upon entering, everything seemed as it should be. The air was still, and there were no peculiar odors wafting about. Yet, as I stepped into the foyer, an unsettling sensation washed over me, unlike anything I had ever experienced in my years as a real estate agent.

Nausea gnawed at the pit of my stomach, and my skin grew clammy, resembling the texture of a kiwi. It was as if an invisible, malevolent force had wrapped its icy fingers around my soul. My professional demeanor wavered as I struggled to maintain composure.

Inexplicably, the husband turned to his wife, his voice barely more than a whisper, "Let's go." His eyes held a sense of urgency, a silent plea for her to follow suit.

It was at this moment that the wife, her features contorted in terror, pushed past me, almost knocking me aside in her haste to flee the house. Her eyes bore into mine, reflecting a profound and inexplicable fear.

We stumbled out onto the front lawn, gasping for breath. The air outside was crisp and free of the oppressive atmosphere that had gripped us moments ago. We exchanged bewildered glances, our faces pale with fear and confusion.

"What was that?" the husband finally managed to utter, his voice trembling.

None of us had an answer. There was no rational explanation for the overwhelming dread that had enveloped us inside that seemingly ordinary house. It was as though an invisible specter had whispered dark secrets into our souls, leaving us with an indelible sense of foreboding.

To this day, we remain haunted by the memory of that house—a place that held no horrors we could see or touch, yet had managed to fill our hearts with the most chilling, nauseous, and inexplicable fear

Postscript:
It’s been almost 20 years since that day. I look up the history of the property now and then…. It never did sell, not then, and not since that I can tell. What was living within then, may still be there.

It was early dusk on a chilly and damp Sunday in October with ominous clouds circling the sky. It was just about time to make dinner when I realized that my closing was going to occur early the next morning and I needed to retrieve the lockbox and key from my vacant home listing.

I asked my partner to join me and took the ride just a quick few miles from my home. I was surprised by how quickly it was getting colder and dark as we ventured down the long dirt road, heading toward the house. I was getting anxious that it might get darker quickly and we would have trouble seeing the lockbox combination.

As we turned into the driveway, my partner offered to get the key and lockbox from the front door. She opened the car door and at the same time, we both heard a faint "help me" coming from beyond the house. My partner and I looked at one another and wondered if we were both hearing this cry since it was a very muffled sound.

Nevertheless, she bolted out of the car and quickly grabbed the lockbox and key and scurried back to the car and we both heard it again and just a bit louder this time.

Although I had my fingers on my phone and ready to dial 911, we opted to see if we could help who needed us. We ventured back behind the house as it was becoming foggy and difficult to see where we were headed. We looked at one another and of course, every scary movie was coming to mind plus the cry for help was getting louder....Was something out there and were we placing ourselves in danger? Nevertheless, we wanted to help!

We slowly came upon a fence and as we gazed beyond, there it was... a goat! It's bleat sounded exactly like "help me." Very glad I did not call the police!

It was an average sunny, 80 degree day in late June on what would normally be a routine home inspection. George, the inspector, and I had worked together in the past and today was about as basic as it could be. A simple 3-bedroom, 2-bath ranch condo in Ann Arbor that you could walk through with your eyes closed and know the floor plan. Who knew that today would be a day that I would NEVER forget.

George proceeded, as he always did, checking the outside and looking for grading issues. If you know anything about inspectors, they ALWAYS find grading issues and make note in their reports. The inspection then continued inside. Checking doors, windows, looking for signs of water damage on the ceilings and floors, we made our way to the kitchen. Again, this seasoned inspector was known for his meticulous approach and then it happened. One misstep would put a shiver down my spine as we made an unexpected discovery.

George, who had a habit and a routine to his inspections, failed to check the stove before putting the broiler on high. Chatting away about nothing, I began to notice a foul odor. It was reminiscent of a possible electrical problem or perhaps plastic that was melting. Black smoke began to seep from the frame of the oven door. Needing to investigate, George opened the oven and to the utter shock of both he and I, a mannequin head lay nestled inside. Its lifeless eyes staring back in a frozen gaze. I let out a scream and shouted, “There’s a head in there”, fearful for a moment that it was a human head. Who could do such a thing? George’s training prepared him for all sorts of surprises during inspections, but this was an entirely different level of disturbing.

The image of the mannequin head haunted us throughout the rest of the inspection especially as every closet door was opened and we peered around every corner.

It was a chilling reminder that there are strange people in this world and that some mysteries are better left unsolved.

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The following story is based on an actual showing experience in my hometown of the last 35+ years. The rumors surrounding the home and what happened to the last known occupant at the time continue to circulate to this day. His whereabouts are not currently known…

“With the sun dipping low in the horizon on a crisp fall afternoon, I found myself standing in front of an old, dilapidated farmhouse that had fallen victim to tax foreclosure.

With a deep breath, I pushed open the creaking front door and stepped into the dimly lit, forgotten world. Reaching for the nearest light switch, I found the lights unresponsive. The place was eerily silent, and the dust hung in the air like a shroud. As I looked around, it was as if the owner had simply vanished during dinner, leaving everything behind. The table was still set, with plates of half-eaten food and dishes piled in the sink. The air was thick with the musty scent of abandonment.

I ventured further into the house, inspecting each room. As the utilities had been disconnected, I relied on my phone screen to provide dim illumination. Old furniture was draped in dusty sheets, cobwebs hung in the corners, and the old, weathered wallpaper told tales of days past. Despite the unease that crept up my spine, I couldn't deny the house's potential.

As the client has not yet arrived, curiosity got the best of me. There were several old barns on the property, and I decided to investigate. The oldest barn stood on the far end of the property, its ancient wood creaking with the wind ominously in the growing darkness.

The barn's door groaned as I slid it open, revealing an even darker interior. As I stepped inside, the only source of light came from cracks in the walls between the weathered boards and the screen from my Palm Treo. Shining the light around, my heart skipped a beat when it fell upon a horrific sight. As I turned to gaze deeper into the structure, a soiled and masked face was turning slowly in the darkness to meet my stare….

Fear gripped my chest as the air seemed to suddenly vanish; I couldn't help but think of the stories I’d heard about this place. Whispers about a deranged hermit, or even worse, a vengeful spirit, haunting the farm. My mind raced as I slowly moved back through the piles of cast-off equipment to the open door.

I fled from the barn with trembling hands, fumbling as they desperately tried to retrieve my keys from my pockets. I was suddenly alone, unable to look behind me as I imagined the masked squatter chasing close behind. At last, I found my key fob and unlocked my truck as I dove for the door. Once inside and the door again secured, I did finally turn to face the barn and found….nothing.

As I nervously scanned the barn, I found the Maglite in my console. Passing the beam over the barn revealed no sign of movement, so I crept quietly out of the truck and back towards the foreboding edifice. As I approached, I picked up an old shovel that had been discarded in the driveway and held it at the ready, to defend myself from whatever was lurking inside.

After waiting for what seemed like an eternity just outside the open door, I mustered my courage and spun around to face the interior, holding the light steady and announcing my presence. As my light panned to face the intruder, I was face to face with – Jason Voorhies himself. As my eyes adjusted to the newly illuminated interior, he vanished, leaving behind only his sinister hockey mask, suspended from the rafters by a length of rotting rope, to forever twist and sway with the wind, and remind all of us that he is never…far….away.”

The above story is true. For those of you who still doubt the facts offered up here, then I present you with the following photographs (taken on that very day):

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Justin Beutel, from Essexville, suddenly passed away in 2018. Theresa, Justin's Mom, and I were transforming his old mechanic garage into the Beutel Bar using all of Justin's items. While Theresa and I were painting, we turned on Justin's radio. The music playing was a 70s/80s blend. All of a sudden Justin's music of choice came on – Hard Rock – the station had changed.

It was sometime in 2008. I was doing a lot of volunteering in Detroit and considering moving there. I went to view a property that was all boarded up. I did my usual walk around the perimeter to make sure it was secure before I went in. I went through the main level and upstairs. I started down the basement steps and smelled something that I have never smelled before. It was rank, very rank. I decided that since I didn’t like the house, to skip the basement… Two hours later, I received a call from the listing agent asking if I was ok. OK? I had been in real estate 14 years and no one had ever called to ask if I was ok! What was going on? An hour after I left, someone was viewing the property and found a dead body. Yikes! I am so glad that I didn’t go down the basement!

I was hosting an open house one sunny Sunday afternoon at a house far out in the country. The house was vacant and there weren't any other houses close by. I was sitting on the couch reading a book when all of a sudden, I started to hear this very loud banging somewhere in the house. I figured someone was trying to break in! It was a large house; so at first, I sat there trying to figure out where the noise was coming from because it persisted and was getting louder. I started going around the house looking for the noise. I went upstairs and all around the first floor; but I couldn't see anything. Finally, I opened up the basement door; and went down the stairs to the basement. The noise was getting louder; so I grabbed a board that was laying there and peeked around the corner of this partitioned wall. To my surprise, there was an egress window on the wall across the room and there was a ringneck pheasant just a banging his beak on the window. Apparently, he saw his reflection in the window; and was trying to fight with the guy on the other side of the window. When he saw me, the fight was over and the loud noise was gone. It was one of those real estate experiences that was scary at first; but funny after I found the culprit!

One afternoon I was showing houses to a client in Dearborn. I arrived a few minutes early and, wanting to create a welcoming atmosphere, I opened the vacant home and turned on all the lights. This particular house was an old structure from the late 50s or 60s. After illuminating the lower level, I ventured upstairs, where there were three bedrooms, a primary bath, and another bathroom.

The unease began when I entered what was supposed to be the primary bedroom. As I flicked on the light, an eerie sensation washed over me. The discomfort escalated as I approached the small primary bathroom within the room. Looking in the doorway, I saw a peculiar sight: a very old, small door on the left. The feeling of being watched intensified, and I couldn't shake the sensation that I wasn't alone.

Just as the tension reached its peak, my clients arrived and rang the doorbell. Relieved by their presence, I hurried downstairs to welcome them without mentioning my unsettling experience. As I guided them through the house, the feeling persisted, particularly when we went upstairs together. Even my client noticed the strange door in the bathroom and expressed feeling creeped out. Her husband, curious, opened the door, revealing an ancient attic space. However, the moment the door creaked open, that unmistakable feeling of being watched returned, stronger than before.

There was an undeniable presence in that house that day, something I had never encountered before.

In 1925 farmhouses with pillar and post foundations, it's common for floors to slope and nothing to be perfectly aligned. Doors and cupboards often don't close properly, leading them to swing open or shut seemingly on their own. That's what I kept reassuring myself. The creaking and other strange noises were just par for the course in these old, drafty homes lacking proper insulation. I convinced myself that everything had a logical explanation, repeating it like a mantra. But despite my attempts at rationality, something felt off in this otherwise charming old farmhouse.

During the open house for my new listing, a lot of visitors came through, but one young couple stood out. They were deeply interested, asking detailed questions and spending a long time exploring the property. After a thorough discussion, we scheduled a meeting at my office the following day to finalize an offer. The young newlyweds, satisfied, requested to walk their dog around the property before leaving.

A few minutes later, they returned, visibly upset, and their little dog was trembling. Puzzled, I inquired about what had happened. To my surprise, they asked me why I hadn't disclosed the fact that a teenage boy had died in the home. I explained that in Michigan, agents aren't obligated to disclose such information for the sake of the family's privacy. Curiosity piqued, I asked how they found out. Their answer sent chills down my spine - they claimed the spirit of the boy had appeared to them in the yard. The dog had barked fiercely at the apparition, seemingly protecting its owners from the ghostly presence. Unnerved, the couple decided they couldn't buy a haunted house and promptly canceled our appointment for the next day.

Suddenly, the inexplicable occurrences in the house took on a new light. Perhaps there were more reasons behind the doors and cupboards moving on their own, and the strange noises that echoed through the house, even when I believed I was alone. Maybe, just maybe, I hadn't been alone after all.

The story begins with a unique buyer, drawn to the allure of a charming, vintage home filled with nostalgia from the past.

This buyer had missed the opportunity to purchase the house due to a contingency requiring her home to sell first. Her name was Hannah, and the loss prompted her to call several times, in tears.

Attempting to alleviate Hannah's anxiety, I decided to pay a visit to the old charmer, business card in hand.

"Though you've only been in this house for a month, my client has fallen in love with this house," I began. "However, if you ever decide to sell, please reach out."

In a quick, quirky turn, within two months, the new owner called, confessing that she had made a hasty decision. She found the old, sprawling home too much to handle for her and her daughter. She wanted to vacate, ready to entertain a reasonable offer from my client. This twist of fate gave Hannah the chance to finally acquire her dream home. On inspection day, owner informed us that her pet boa constrictor had gone missing that morning. Hannah, undaunted, proclaimed, "No snake can scare me away. This is my forever home." The inspection proceeded smoothly, with a few notes from inspector about a long-ago fire, which had left no lasting structural damage. The house, built solidly in the 1870's featuring remarkable 10-inch carved woodwork, handmade doors, and wide wooden plank floors, that time had caused some sagging and separation in places.

Next step, appraisal. An event that took a spooky, eerie turn. The appraiser and I alone in the vacant house (owner and her daughter had vacated) when we heard distinct footsteps descending the stairs directly in front of us. Creaking and moaning each step grew louder as engaged in decent from upper level to main floor.

I couldn't help but ask, "Did you hear that?" The appraiser, clearly shaken, replied, "Yes, I'm finished here," and hastily left.

Hannah remained unshaken. "This is my dream house," she declared, "and I'll stay here until they carry me out in a body bag. No ghost will run me out."

Hannah, now living in her dream home came to believed two cantankerous old men were responsible for these peculiar occurrences. They seemed to resent any disturbance.

Researching the house's history, Hannah discovered that it was built by two lumber baron brothers, explaining the extensive woodworking. Hannah over the years claimed the ghosts loathed being disrupted and were neither friendly or unfriendly. Just miserable old men.

Fast forward 25 years, Hannah passed away. Her children reached out to list the house, which had become packed with collectibles, taking two months to clear out. The most eerie impossible happened. During the final days of moving, Hannah's daughter picked up her mother's urn, which had been residing on a shelf in the parlor. Unexpectedly it slipped from her hands, breaking, allowing Hannah's ashes to slip through those large cracks of the old pine floorboards. Throughout the entire move, nothing else was damaged or broken. As Hannah's ashes settled into the cracks, it left everyone with chills running up and down their spine, whether she had joined the two cranky old men who haunted the house? Did they scare away the previous owner and her child? Had they orchestrated the boa constrictor's escape? Did they want Hannah to join them? Or did Hannah want to join them?

In the end, it seemed Hannah had indeed gotten her wish to never leave that charming old house, with its 10-inch carved woodwork, handmade doors, and creaky wooden plank floors, sagging and separating with age.

I work as both a real estate agent and a photographer for various agents. I was asked to photograph a house, and later found out it was owned by the agent's grandparents who recently passed away.

Before I continue, let me just clarify I don't believe in spirits or ghosts at all. I'm not faint of heart, nor do I have a weak stomach in any way.

The house was a bit older, had very dim lighting and already gave off a bit of a creepy vibe. Not to mention it was on a large piece of land, meaning there weren't any neighbors close by.

The agent gave me the usual tour around the house, and then left so I could take some photos and videos. About an hour into my shoot, my battery died so I ran outside to get another. I walked back in the entry through the garage door and as I entered, I began to hear footsteps on the hardwood floors. Several of them.

I immediately paused, holding my breath to see where they could be coming from. I heard about ten footsteps, and then nothing. I waited to see if I would hear them again, thinking it may be an animal or something in the attic. I pondered for the next ten minutes and couldn't come up with a logical answer, so I brushed it off and got back to it.

As I was finishing up the house, the sun began to set. I turned off the lights, closed the doors and gathered my gear. I walked outside with my arms full, proceeded back into the old house to grab the key from the kitchen and put back the lockbox.

I came back in through the same garage door, completely forgetting what happened earlier. The moment I entered the house, the creepy footsteps began, exactly as they had before. A cold chill ran down my spine and through my entire body. I ran into the kitchen as fast as I could, scrambling to find where I had placed the key so I could get out, but it was like it had disappeared. That’s when I heard it again: footsteps on a wooden floor, going across the room. I knew in my gut something was there with me.

After what felt like forever, I saw the key laying on the windowsill. I snatched it quickly and booked it for the door in a panic. I hurried up, closed the door, and started sprinting to my car. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, reached into my pocket for my car keys, and realized I left them in the house. I had no choice but to go back in. I was forced to encounter the spirit one more time against my will, there was no other way.

I entered in through a different door this time and sure enough, I heard those exact same eerie footsteps, 'pat, pat, pat, pat, pat..." as I was forced to enter the haunted realm again to find my keys.

To this day, I've never experienced anything like that again. I didn't even tell the agent, as I didn’t want to bring up his recently-deceased grandparents. A few other oddball things did happen to me while I was there, including crashing my supposedly crash-proof drone, but the sound of those footsteps is what still haunts me to this day.

In 2015, I was showcasing what should have been an incredible property—a mid-century modern home perched high on a hill overlooking a lake. However, the experience took an unexpected turn. The driveway hadn't been cleared of snow and ice, making the ascent quite challenging. Upon reaching the house, we discovered the power had been turned off. With darkness falling, I relied on my flashlight and phone's light to explore the place.

During the inspection, one of my clients asked, "Rob, do you have that feeling we had in that other house?" We had encountered an unsettling atmosphere in a different property the previous fall, but this time, I didn't sense anything unusual. However, my client felt an eerie presence and couldn't shake the feeling that someone was standing right beside her. Disturbed, she couldn't stay and insisted on leaving promptly.

Ah, the adventures of real estate! It's always something, keeping the job interesting and unpredictable.

During a short sale marathon of showings, I had organized eight consecutive viewings for a client and his girlfriend, each lasting about 30 minutes. After the third house, the girlfriend asked to use the restroom, and I jokingly referred to it as "testing the plumbing." The next house was a foreclosure and winterized, so using the bathroom was not an option. The situation became urgent, but my client insisted they would make it home after the remaining two showings.

At the next property, which had a history of basement water issues, we received a text that our last showing had been canceled as it had accepted an offer. While inspecting the basement, I opened a closet door under the stairs, completely blocking my view. Suddenly, the girlfriend screamed, startled by a mannequin dressed as Pennywise from the movie "IT." As I tried to reassure her, I discovered she had an unfortunate accident.

In an attempt to help, I offered my jacket and searched for paper towels. My client called later, telling me that it was the funniest thing he had ever witnessed. They weren't in a relationship much longer after that.

I've attached the picture I took that day.

What do you think?

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This past Spring, I received a referral for a listing in which the heir lived in Washington state. My cleaning lady, who spent a whole day at the house sprucing it up, called me the next day asking me the history of the home. She told me that she kept hearing singing, a woman’s voice, though the home has been vacant since November. This sparked my curiosity. My boyfriend Rob does my drone pics and we went to the home a few days later, meeting another photographer there. Before I could tell them about the singing, I slipped in a weird spot outside the home and broke my wrist. Rob let the photographer into the home and took me to the hospital.

A few days later I had another listing and the same photographer met Rob and I there. I was explaining my cast and the singing to the new seller and the photographer, who was in another room, ran into the kitchen asking if the singing story was about the house where I broke my wrist. When I told him it was, he freaked out and said when he was taking the photos there were a bunch of red boxes that kept popping up on his camera screen as if trying to focus on faces, though the home was vacant. He said the hair on the back of his neck stood up and that if he’d known about the singing before the camera incident, he would have left the house running. I finally got in touch with the heir later that day and he told me his uncle had passed the previous November at 104 years old and his aunt died in the home from Alzheimer’s a few years prior.

I guess they didn’t want to sell their home!

Scott woke up around 6am one frosty Spring Saturday morning in Zuni. The mobile home he lived in was in a fenced in area with five other homes. This is where the teachers that were not Zunis lived, as only Zunis can have homes on the reservation pueblo. The Zunis called all non-Zuni Indians by their various tribal Indian names. All others were called Anglos.

Scott was asked to attend a tribal meeting and he waited for one of the leaders, Tyler, to pick him up to go to the meeting house. The building was painted yellow over cement blocks and had several double-hung windows. Scott sat in a folding wooden chair and watched as the other members walked in. As the meeting started, he looked over to see a huge black newfoundland dog standing on its back paws looking in the window. “Look at that big dog out there!” Scott said to Tyler. Tyler and the others looked and one of them said, “I know that dog and that dog is not a dog, it is a witch!”

All the leaders raced to get out the door, the dog started running away. As it did, one of the Zunis grabbed a gun out of his truck and fired at the dog, hitting it. It fell briefly, then got up and kept running. One of the others said, “I know where that witch lives!” and they all got in their vehicles and drove away.

They pulled down a dusty trail to a small adobe dwelling and just outside wasv a man in a pool of blood, apparently dead. A Zuni police officer arrived shortly after and asked what happened. The one who shot him told the officer the man was actually a witch in the form of a dog and he was looking in the window to spy on the meeting. He also said the man was in the form of a dog when he shot him, and the others present corroborated the story.

The tribal officer looked at the body, verifying that the man was dead. He then said since he was a witch there is no violation of Zuni Tribal Law. Then he drove away, leaving the dead man lying there. The leaders went to their meeting without further discussion about the event.

Author’s Note: This story was told to me by my friend, Scott, who was a teacher for decades in Zuni. I'd known Scott since we were in High School and in the 50 years we'd been friends, I never once knew him to lie or even exaggerate about anything. He swore that the event actually happened and for years I've tried to figure how something like this was possible. How come the man was wearing clothes but the dog wasn't? Could this be some type of subtle hypnosis or something? It seems weird that Tribal police officers saw no issue and didn't investigate any further.

Scott died 6 years ago from kidney issues and I'm glad his story could be told.

A few years back I showed home in Alpena that was a former hospital. Rumor had it that every woman of the house was deemed “crazy” after residing there. I was bringing my buyers through for a tour and when we reached the kitchen, one of them (a woman) tried to open the kitchen cabinets but none of them would budge. I tried and had the same result. Her husband, however, could easily open each door. The building was a three-story house and we had lots more to see so we continued to explore, not thinking anything of it. We made it through the second story with no problems. When we got to the third story, we noticed it was very dingy and neglected and gave off an overall creepy vibe. This is the floor where we were told mental health patients were kept. Because we were creeped out, we quickly headed down the stairs and back through the kitchen. As we entered the room, we noticed every single cabinet door was now wide open, despite being shut when we left the room. Needless to say, we boogied out of there immediately!

I have several stories, but this one is perfect for Halloween.

I received an online lead and went to the house. Outside, the front porch was swarming with insects, and the potential owner had blocked the front door with a large pot. When he finally opened the door, a foul stench wafted out, making me gasp for fresh air. I quickly retrieved my KN95 mask, not just to protect myself, but also to shield myself from the putrid odor.

With the mask on, I attempted to explore the house, but the smell was overpowering. I coughed and choked my way through a brief walkthrough of the first floor, and the kitchen was the worst part. The place was devoid of furniture, and the lights were off, creating a sinister atmosphere. I couldn't help but wonder if it was a squatter using the kitchen oven to do their business.

The homeowner insisted I check out the basement, but I couldn't bring myself to go down there. After enduring the odor for about ten minutes, I told him I couldn't stay any longer. Strangely, he seemed completely immune to the smell. I dashed out of the house, ripping off my mask, but the foul scent seemed to linger in my mind for days. Some unsettling rumors I heard later suggested there might be a dead body hidden somewhere, possibly in the basement.

One of my strangest real estate stories occurred just a few years ago. A couple reached out to me asking to tour a home that was for sale. Everything was going normally at first. We met at the house, and they seemed nice, maybe a little withdrawn. We were walking through the home together, going from room to room. After a couple minutes, I notice that the woman is no longer in the room with us. I’m looking around for her when suddenly, I heard a bone-chilling, blood-curdling scream, followed by wailing. The sound seems to be coming from the front of the home, so I run over. There, I find the woman crumpled on the ground, sobbing and inconsolable. The boyfriend leans over to me and apologizes, then tells me that her brother died in this home, right in this very spot, as he points at the ground in front of us where she is kneeling. It then became apparent to me that they were not actually interested in buying the home. The boyfriend then asked me to follow him to the kitchen and asked that I give her a moment because this is very emotional for her. I told him that I was sorry to hear this, as I pondered what to do next. The boyfriend started asking me questions, which appeared to intentionally redirect my focus. I listened for a while, and then heard footsteps going upstairs, and a few seconds later, I heard sobbing from upstairs. I was thinking to myself, how the heck do I get out of the house with these guys, so I texted my friend and asked him to call me. When he called, I acted like he was a client, and told him I was wrapping up a showing and I should be able to meet him in 20 minutes. The boyfriend asked if they needed to leave, and I said yes. He went upstairs to get the girlfriend, and I escorted them out of the house. The boyfriend thanked me, and I reluctantly told him, “You’re welcome,” but I wanted to 'thank' him for requesting the showing under false pretenses and giving me a really uncomfortable experience.

I have a couple of memorable experiences to share, but the ones that stand out the most occurred a few years back, around this time of year, when I was showing an old farm home in Oakland Township. The house, built in the late 1920s, exuded a timeless aura. On a rainy and cold October Saturday, as we approached the property via a long, tree-lined driveway, an eerie feeling settled over me. It seemed as though the place had been frozen in time.

Upon opening the first door, which led to a staircase, I felt an inexplicable touch on my arm. Glancing around, I realized my clients were behind me, but too far away to have touched me. A sense of foreboding intensified as I explored further into the house. The initial landing, meant for hanging hats and jackets, felt unsettling. As I moved closer to the kitchen, a sensation of being grabbed gripped me and I got kinda nervous. Upon entering the kitchen, I was greeted by an unsettling sight – doll heads and knives hanging from the ceiling, reminiscent of a scene from a horror movie. I felt a tight grip on my arm again, and once again, nobody was near me. I freaked out! A palpable presence seemed to deter me from proceeding. While my clients didn't share my perception, they were spooked by the sight of dolls and knives. I hastily retreated, my nerves frayed, haunted by the encounter for the remainder of the day.

I have another tale from a different showing, again during this time of year, on a beautiful October day. My client was eager to find a home in a particular subdivision in Warren. We arrived at a charming 3-bedroom, 2-bath ranch home. Enthralled by the house, my clients explored the main floor while the wife and I ventured into the basement. The wife was smitten with the finished basement and its stylish kitchen and bar. However, when her bodybuilder husband descended the stairs, he froze, turning ghostly white. He let out a scream akin to a schoolgirl before bolting out of the house. Despite her dreams of the perfect home, he adamantly refused to return, convinced he had seen and felt a presence within.

Here's my final tale: about 15 years ago, I sold a home in Rochester. During the inspection in the master bedroom, I absentmindedly closed one of the bedroom doors, only to discover blood splattered across it and part of the adjacent wall. Alarmed, I contacted the agent, who informed me that nearly a year earlier, the son had tragically stabbed his mother multiple times in that very room and she’d passed away. Despite the unsettling discovery, my clients proceeded with the purchase. However, their time in the house was marked by strange occurrences and unsettling feelings, eventually prompting them to move a couple years later.

These incidents are just a few among the many strange and eerie encounters I've had while working with buyers and sellers. It's enough to make you wonder what planet some people come from!